


Jörmungandr

by honeyskeleton



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 1940s, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Hermione Granger, Bullying, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hogwarts, Hunger (Theme), Magical Theory (Harry Potter), Mutual Manipulation, Mystery, Slow Burn, Slytherin Hermione Granger, Spycraft, The Deathly Hallows, Thievery, Time Travel, Worldbuilding, competent people doing their best but still failing sometimes, maybe a bit dark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-16 20:34:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29706192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeyskeleton/pseuds/honeyskeleton
Summary: a boy snapped my wand in half;a man devoured my stone;a woman in black tore my cloak;and i left them all, alone.After destroying the Hallows proves to actually be a bad idea, Hermione travels to a time where they were most conveniently stealable. There are a couple dark lords and a cellar door in her way, but she is determined to outsmart them all. Well, at least the wizards, the door might pose a problem.Do you think you can outwit Death, Hermione? Play the long game and win? Death is not clever. They are not tricky. They are eternal, and will outlast your dust.Or, Hermione makes mistakes and deals with them the only way she knows how: larger, more desperate mistakes.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle, Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Comments: 22
Kudos: 76





	1. Warm Soup in Autumn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione has lunch.

## Part 1: The Causes and their Effect

_a boy snapped my wand in half;  
a man devoured my stone;  
a woman in black tore my cloak;  
and i left them all, alone._

* * *

It didn't hurt.

Hermione had braced herself for it, in the hollow, burnt-out remains of the old Shrieking Shack. Teeth clenched, muscles tense, ready for whatever pain would rend at her for daring to cheat the laws of time.

But it was barely a breeze.

A light trickle through her shoulders, another across the line of her chest, as her magic responded to the threads encircling the room around her—A web of woven magic stolen, sundered, and reknit for a desperate purpose.—And then, she was swept away like a dandelion on a windy hilltop, gently flowing wherever fate decides to take her, to sprout green and maybe make something new.

One breath in and she was in that blackened husk of a house; one breath out and she was in a dusty but roofed entryway. 

Dull parquet floors, flowery wallpaper peeled slightly at the edges, and an ornate chair unloved and abandoned when its original owners left. Dust motes, disturbed by her sudden appearance, danced through a shard of light shining out of now not boarded-up windows. A chandelier down the hall thoughtfully crafted when the house was first built, but now forgotten the same as everything else in it. The house smelled empty, not the empty of death just that of abandonment, and a feeling of hope so sharp it was almost painful welled up in her chest until it was suffocating. 

Hermione laughed. 

She laughed! It was a manic thing and probably concerning if she was being objective, but she couldn't be because who cares? 

Who cares! 

She had done it. 

She was not splinched through space-time. She was not scattered to the four winds. She was in the not-Shrieking Shack seemingly fifty years in the past.

There was spell-craft experimentation and then there was intentionally weaving the right runic formula to _travel through the folds of space-time_. She was the so-called brightest witch of her age, and finally, _finally,_ she had done something that mattered. The hardest part was done, wasn’t it? She had practically _already_ succeeded in saving the world.

For a moment, it was bliss. Giggles bubbled out of her, buoyantly effortless, making her almost lightheaded with the joy of it.

She laughed.

She laughed until tears streamed down her face.

Until her breath hitched and her hands started to shake. Until thoughts whirled through her head too fast to catch and hold, running through her like a rabbit too quick for a snare. 

Was she about to break down? That would be a bit of a time-waster, though it would be better to get it out of the way sooner rather than later. 

Wait, no, it would be better later. When she knew it was safe. This was an unknown time with unknown dangers; she needed vigilance. 

Hermione took a breath, deep enough to make her ribs ache, and held it.

Stone. Cloak. Wand. 

There was a goal.

A _plan_. 

She needed to _think_. Clearly. 

She grappled her thoughts back into working order and slowly relaxed her breath. 

Right. First things first, scout the location. 

Hermione craned her neck and looked at the not yet destroyed and therefore comparatively immaculate house. There were a pair of dingy glass windows framing the door, and, off to one side, an archway leading to another room. The other side had a scuffed-up staircase that crept up to the second floor. There was a single hallway in the back that she supposed led to a kitche—

Vacuous hunger, deep and mindless, clawed through her bones and brought Hermione to her knees. 

She doubled over and grabbed at her stomach with one hand, trying to keep her head as wave after wave of nausea crashed over her, green bile at the back of her throat. 

_Wha-? What was…?_

Her thoughts were spongy-soft, unable to solidify. 

Hunger dug into her further. 

She grasped in the bag slung across her body and pulled out her wand with shaking fingers. Her magic was strung-out and brittle, traveling like that left her catatonically weak, but she had enough for an emergency spell or five. Hopefully, there wouldn't be a fight today. 

_Saturo_

Her magic chafed as she formed it, but the spell still worked.

Hermione lay down on the cool floor for a moment trying to get her breath back. Her hands still shook and it took a second for vision to focus and _damn_ she was hungry; but, she was no longer incapacitated. She had forgotten what it was like for hunger to debilitate her like that. When was the last time she’d eaten?

She would need food here, wouldn’t she?

She sighed on the floor, blowing silvery dust up into the air. Maintaining her body shouldn't affect plans _too_ much. Food was plentiful here, even in rationing Britain. 

Though, this starvation shifted immediate priorities. 

The satiation spell would last about an hour, and then she would regress into cannibalizing her own organs. 

Aberforth first then? He offered food at his pub, right? She would be able to pick up era-appropriate clothes in town after she had eaten. After that, she would write the letter and get started ward—

Her stomach growled.

Right, focus. Food.

She placed her bag in the room off the entryway—small, empty, with a large and dusty bay window—and pulled out her smaller hand purse. She didn't want to carry around something so modern in a sleepy little wizarding village. Not to mention the more illicit cargo that it held. A single ward on the bag was all the magic she could force, and she was out the front door. 

And stuttered to a halt.

Instead of greeting the verdant greens of a Scottish high summer, the small town of Hogsmead was covered in the burnt reds of fall. 

Well, shit. 

How far off was she? It was supposed to be August. What was the date?

She needed a Prophet.

What had happened? Which rune was off? Or was there interference from the landing spot. Luna had hypothesized that there could be noise in the weave of magic if she was going to a place dense with magical conflict. Which mid-war Britain certainly qualified for. Hermione had argued that magic had a consistent density and only _people_ in conflict. But was Luna right? Did the magic at the endpo—

Her stomach growled louder. 

She audibly sighed, cast a notice-me-not charm on herself—her dirty robe was tattered and slightly stained, but she still winced at the magic—and began the short trudge down the path to Hogsmeade. 

* * *

It was near mid-afternoon. 

Clouds bright above and red leaves crinkling underfoot, Hermione glanced around surreptitiously as she entered the village. There were a handful of adults out shopping, and, down near the post office, a couple of older witches (wearing unnecessary extravagant hats) were chatting outside. She didn't see anyone in starch white shirts and ties. Hopefully, that meant it was a weekday, and she wouldn’t accidentally bump into any students looking like an emaciated werewolf.

She turned down to the first crossroads, and the Hog’s Head came into view. The shingles looked a bit newer, and the wood wasn't as rotted; but it was still an unmistakably disheveled place.

Despite herself, a genuine smile crept onto Hermione’s face. Comfort can be found in the familiar regardless of its pleasantness. The two steps up front creaked in the same place they would over half a century from now; she controlled her smile and opened the door. 

The inside was dusty, choking in a way the abandoned House wasn’t.—There must have been some charms on the house then. She’ll have to check once she didn’t have to ration her casting.—The pub was unclean, not unused. There were some scattered, worn tables holding mismatched wooden chairs, and a dirty bar off in the back with a menagerie of uneven stools. 

There was a single patron off to the right, sitting in the darkest part of the pub, and doing his level best to sleep the day away. He was slightly rounded, wearing heavily-patched dark robes and a pointed hat.

There was a Prophet in front of him.

Hermione crept up quietly. She wouldn’t waste magic on this. Her shoes were soft, and she had spent enough time here to know where the creaky boards were. She still had time on the notice-me-not; it would be just a simple matter of deft hands. 

Besides, she was just borrowing it for a moment.

Her stomach growled obscenely.

The man’s eyes shot opened and caught hers; the notice-me-not charm snapped under the weight of being noticed. 

She blushed, thrown despite herself. Whether it was from the embarrassment of her loud stomach, annoyance at being caught, pain of the spell rebound, or fear of actually having to interact with another person she couldn’t tell. She should be fine though, right? She's dealt with worse than just, like… a guy.

“You hungry there, lass?” he looked at her up and down, taking in her torn clothes and thin features.

“Er… yes. Do you know who runs the pub?” she asked, voice cracked rough. When was the last time she talked to another person? Neville, right? When he found out what she’d done and tried to kill her? She was shocked that her tongue remembered how to form words. She cleared her throat and glanced to the back near the bar, “There doesn't seem to be anyone there.”

“Ol’ Abby’s upstairs,” he said as he got up. Hermione moved out of the way as he walked past, meandered over to the stairs. 

He shouted up them. A quick bark of: “Abby!” Something he’d probably done a thousand times in his life.

And her entire body tensed to kill him. His back was turned to her; it would be as quick as a wink. Her finger twitched on her wand, and she bit the inside of her cheek to stop her brain from completing the spell. 

He was being nice, trying to get her help. 

She was safe. 

She didn't need to freak out at him for being so loud. 

She was _safe_. 

She didn’t need to worry about attracting notice. There was no danger here.

She. 

Was.

Safe. 

“Got a half-starved wee down here. Bring her some soup, will ye?” He slunk back from the stairs to his seat, looking not at all bashful for shouting the house down, and motioned for her to sit in the chair next to him. She hoped her eyes weren’t panicked. She swallowed hard.

“What? What are you blathering about Sam?” A jolt went through Hermione, at the voice from upstairs, snapping her out of whatever spiral she was caught in. It was recognizably Aberforth’s. Not as gruff perhaps, but the same tenor was there. 

Hermione sat. 

If this Sam was close to Aberforth, she could use a friendship with him to foster trust with Aberforth. It would make everything _so_ much easier if he actually trusted her. 

“Is this how you usually are? Shouting at each other from different floors?” She tried for light, but it came out a bit strangled. She tasted blood. And immediately swallowed it down, not wanting to scare her first contact.

“Only during operating hours,” He didn't seem to notice. Or, was being very polite about it. “I’m a mediator. Keep the more rowdy patrons in check,” He snapped the Prophet open. It was the midsection. She couldn’t see a date. “If I were to leave the place unattended, he would stop paying me.”

“I don't pay you anyway. You can leave at any time,” a voice drifted down the stairs along with a man. He was tall, broad-shouldered with unkempt hair, wearing a simple grey vest, and narrowing his eyes at her, “Good afternoon. What are you doing here.”

“Abb-y,” Sam whined out the second syllable. 

“Don't call me that,” Aberforth snapped. 

“She’s just hungry. Spot her some food.”

“I can pay,” she interjected. It wouldn't be good to start building her reputation with Aberforth as a grifter. She dug around her purse for some sickles. 

“I meant,” he bit out the words, glaring at her. Hermione didn’t roll her eyes. “What is a girl, half-starved and looking fresh out of a Ministry raid, doing in my pub when the Three Broomsticks is just down the road and a much nicer place.” 

Ah. Aberforth was a founding member of the Order, wasn’t he? You don’t start a secret society without healthy paranoia. Wonder what snuffed out that inquisitiveness. 

“Just looking for some food,” It wasn’t a lie.

“Are you now? The Broomsticks is right out of the station. Why did you come all the way to the other side of town?”

“I’m staying at a house up the hill. This place is closer, actually,” she said. Hermione looked down at her clothes and winced, “And… um... I thought that showing up at the Broomsticks looking like this,” she gestured to her tattered cloaks, “might give me a reputation I didn’t want. Small town gossip and all that.” 

“I see, and why exactly are you looking like that?”

“I haven't had time to change yet,” she snapped a little too hard. Hermione knew she was being flippant, but she was tired and hungry and _not good_ at this part. God, she missed Ron and his easy affability. 

Besides, it wasn’t as if she could blurt out the truth upon first meeting. Aberforth would either assume she was lying and kill her for being a Grindelwald spy, or believe her and kill her for trying to capture the Hallows. She needed to court him like a feral cat: slowly, subtly, and with lots of treats. 

She couldn’t wait for him to mellow out in a few decades. 

He harrumphed and stared her down, “Keep an eye on her, Sam.” And turned to walk back upstairs.

“I thought I could leave at any time?” Sam called to his back. Aberforth glared at him and kept going. 

Her stomach growled violently.

Both men stared at her for a moment before Aberforth sighed, snapped his fingers, and a bowl of steaming hot soup landed in front of her. He disappeared up the stairs.

The clatter, again, made her body tense sharply, but the smell of hot food made her relax just as quickly. _Merlin_ , she was starved. She couldn’t even think to say thank you; she just started eating. 

It tasted like onions, potatoes, and salt.

It was the best thing she had ever eaten. 

It was possible the best thing anyone had ever eaten. 

She should ask Aberforth for the recipe. He couldn’t say no, right? She was complimenting his cooking after all. And then she could make it herself. Holy shit, she could make food herself! When was the last time she had access to fresh potatoes? That she could eat? 

Fuck, she could eat potatoes! 

“No need to cry, lass. Soup can’t be that bad,” Sam said softly, eyes worrying over her.

“Er…,” she wiped at her cheeks. Her hands came away wet. Damn. She didn't need to have her breakdown _here_. She was trying to impress how competent she was onto Aberforth. It would be bad to have his friend see her shatter like a teacup because of delicious, delicious soup. She took in a shaky breath and wound back up her fraying mind, “Oh. Oh no, it’s fine. I’m fine.”

“Yeah?” He looked skeptical but continued on, “Don’t mind Ol’ Abby. He’s just worried about the war’s all. He knows some people on the front. Worried about them.”

“Of course. Any news?” Hermione pointed to the paper in his hands. 

He handed her the paper, “Have a look for yourself.”

 _Finally_. She flipped to the front page. 

_Monday, OCT 4, 1943_

Well, hell. She was off by a couple of months, but at least she didn't miss her window entirely. It looked like calculating the precise magic necessary to thread two moments of time together—one of which had volatile magic at the _best_ of times, the other completely unknown and also in the middle of a war—was a task that seemed to outmatch her. She had a wild thought to take some measurements, go back, and shoot for August. Errors weren't just risky, they could be disastrous.

The thought of returning and having to remake herself _again…_ No, she could stay and make October work. But, she would have to be better. Perfection was mandatory.

She read the headline. 

_Grindelwald Strikes Again!! The Continent in Terror!! Spencer-Moon Floundering When Asked to Comment._

Hilariously, the feeling of warm comfort and familiarity returned. This time slightly tinged with a bitter nostalgia. At least the Prophet was a rag in every time. 

She ate her soup as she browsed through the paper, more the hunger for reading than actual interest in the articles. Oh, one of the Greengrasses had a party but did not invite an old friend because of a spilled drink at a wedding two years ago? How scandalous. Look, Honeydukes debuted a new sweet, charmed to make you forget your most embarrassing memory. How novel!

She smiled into the paper, and her entire body relaxed like dirty silks slipping into warm water. There was no greater comfort than worrying over the minutiae of everyday life. Never in her life had Hermione thought she would be giddy hearing heartless gossip. But, after having every day be a tossup whether she would live to see the next, the pettiness was a welcome reprieve. 

“Good news for you, then?” Sam asked. 

Hermione glanced up, “Any news is good news.” 

Sam looked a bit confused and opened his mouth to say something else when she handed him back the paper and the handful of sickles she had pulled from her purse.

“Thank you for the reading and the soup,” she said. Hermione was still hungry but doubted that she would be able to get another bowl from Aberforth right now. Initial contact had been made; it just needed to be developed. A month or two and she could win Aberforth’s trust. She got up from the table and started toward the door, “I’ll be heading out, have some errands to run. Be seeing you!”

“Anytime, lass,” Sam called back with a wave. 

* * *

Hermione had made a bit of a sour impression on Aberforth but knew it could be salvaged if she presented herself correctly. Maybe a lost orphan eager to get revenge on Grindelwald for destroying her home? To pull at his heartstrings while remaining a quarter truth. Or would a savvy ex-fighter willing to use any means necessary make her more appealing to work with. She would mull it over. Mulling would occur. 

Using Aberforth to get information on Grindelwald was actually his own idea. They had spoken once, the first time things had truly fallen apart. Apparently, in the 40s he had coordinated his own private search effort and would be able to provide her with information. Well, however much she could pry out of him. The only trouble was getting him to trust her. _Her_ Aberforth had said to be honest without oversharing.

Well, they only managed to exchange three sentences. So, she got the last part right.

Step two: Clothes. There was a shop that catered to students who needed extra clothes and a shop more frequented by the residents of Hogsmeade. Hermione went to the latter. Even if it was a weekday and the likelihood of running into a student was low, she didn't want to take the chance. 

Hermione walked toward the main road, head down, and cast another notice-me-not on herself. She stuttered slightly afterward, still exhausted from the _time travel_. But she was dressed in strange and tattered clothes and it wouldn't do to cause a scene in the middle of a calm October day. Gossips were nostalgic but still an inconvenience.

She slipped in and out of the clothier, Gladrags, with a couple of dark nondescript robes, five collared dresses, and a week's worth of 1940s underwear. That was all she _needed_ but there were more women wearing hats than not, so she added a simple maroon hat to the pile. A pile of galleons set on the counter, and she left without a word. 

Leaving the shop, Hermione donned a simple black robe and the maroon hat and stuffed the rest into her bag. She just needed to blend in enough for the last errand and the notice-me-not would snap as soon as she greeted someone. 

Four buildings down was the post-office. 

She took a deep breath. Her first conversation with Sam hadn’t gone terribly. Talking with Aberforth had been awkward, but not unsalvageable. This would go smoothly.

A loud bell chimed as she walked in. 

It set her teeth on edge.

The Hogsmeade post-office was much the same as any other post-office. A hundred owls fluttering about like confetti at a parade, hundreds of cubbies built all the way up to the rafters, half housing birds, the others mail. The only way anyone could find anything was by magic.A tall woman in a green robe sat behind a counter near the front sorting mail. There was a plaque that read _Sterling Buttons_ in front of her. 

There were two small writing desks to the right. She sat down and began her letter.

_Dear Headmaster Armondo Dippet,_

_You do not know me, but I hope this letter finds you well._

_I have posted to ask if I would be able to attend your school this year. There has been increasing trouble on the continent, as I am sure you are aware, and it is no longer safe for a muggleborn in south France._

_My coven has managed to smuggle me out, with the intention of having me spend my sixth and seventh year of schooling at Hogwarts. The only proof of my claim is my wand, which you will find enclosed, and a recommendation letter from the head of my coven, Millicent Carrel, also enclosed. I understand that she was a graduate of Hogwarts herself and her name may still carry enough recognition to garner some weight to my request._

_I hope this is sufficient proof of my providence as I do not have many magical connections this side of the Channel. I have the funds to pay for any tuition costs and supplies needed and would be happy to discuss academic testing or other practical assessments needed to attend classes at your esteemed institution._

_If not, I would appreciate my wand back._

_Sincerely,_

_Hermione J. Granger_

God, it was so much easier to lie in a letter.

The recommendation letter forgery had been easy enough. Officially, Carrel was an archivist with an independent coven and as such had left copious amounts of paperwork behind. Hermione had practiced her handwriting for hours in an empty townhouse in Paris. 

Handwriting _charms_ could be found with even the simplest detecting spell.

More pertinently, she was a French Ministry spy whose last contact had been August 27th, 1943 when she was sent scouting in Austria. No one to validate Hermione's story, but also no one to call it into question. She was banking on the mess of the war to at least buy her a month or two in the castle. 

A minute alone with Voldemort and part one would be done.

Hermione placed her wand and the recommendation letter inside. A small wandless anti-tamper charm sealed the envelope ensuring that only its intended recipient would be able to open the letter. A spell well spent, but she needed a damn _nap_.

Adjusting her hat to cover a bit more of her face—she still looked like shit—she went up to the counter. 

“Miss Buttons? I am here to post a letter,” she held out said letter and smiled through the bite of the notice-me-not blowback, “Do you have owls available?” She inwardly cringed. Of course, there were owls. There were literally hundreds. She _really_ needed to practice talking with people. 

“Err. Yes, of course,” Buttons turned to her, brushed her fingers through her hair, and put on a smile, “And who are you sending to?”

“Armando Dippet. Headmaster at Hogwarts.”

“Right,” she looked confused for a moment, probably because she thought Hermione was a student and could easily contact him. She looked young enough for it. 

Buttons whistled a two-tone and called out, “Jubilee,” A brown owl the size of a robin came down from one of the rafter cubbies. She secured the envelope on its leg with the tie of a ribbon, “And your name?”

“Hermione Granger,” There was no point in picking a fake name. It was obvious she was muggleborn; she had mudblood carved into her arm. Her cover story was simple but thin, and whatever scrutiny adding a pureblood name brought would tear it to shreds. Besides, she wouldn’t be at Hogwarts long enough for it to matter. 

And she just didn't want to.

Buttons stared at her a moment, her smile tightening, clearly waiting for something. Hermione stared back, people skills too rusty to understand. 

“And return address?” asked Buttons after a moment. 

“Erm...” Damn. Did the house have a number on it? “I’m not sure exactly. I just moved into the old house up the road. On the hill.”

“Miss Flock’s old house? Upon the hill? Are you family?” 

Fuck. 

Years of preparation, months of researching people in the forties, and it never occurred to Hermione that _this_ not-Shrieking Shack would have had a previous owner. Which was stupid, because of course it did. It was a normal house.

“No... ,” God, she was such a terrible liar, “I... I just... I had bought it from an auction,” _that’s_ the lie she’s going with? “Estate sale, I mean! There was an auction for her estate. I... my family bought it,” _Shut. Up._ “You know the continent is dangerous and it seemed like a good idea to have a backup in case things went to shit,” she babbled.

Buttons looked aghast. Hermione blushed. Oh, it was the 40s, not polite to swear.

“I mean if things went _poorly_ , with the increased attacks you know?”

Buttons nodded frantically, trying to get the uncouth swearing witch out of her post office, “Right! Novella’s house. I'll send over the owl as soon as the reply comes through. Yes. Thank you!”

Hermione dashed out of the shop red-faced, cursing herself. She should have researched the Shrieking Shack’s origins before Lupin. She should have at least come up with a convincing lie to cover why she was staying there.

She shouldn’t have sworn in front of a _stranger_. 

This is 1943, she needed to be better at blending in. It wouldn't do to attract undue attention and being a carelessly swearing witch would definitely stick out. If perfection was impossible she could at least try for _competency_. 

* * *

She stopped by the grocers on the way back to the house and picked up staples and a treat of seasonal pomegranates. It wouldn't take long to refurbish the kitchen. And as much as she needed to cultivate her relationship with Aberforth to get him to trust her, she didn't want to spend every meal in the Hog's Head. Depending on how long it would take to get into Hogwarts—potentially a year if she wasn't accepted mid-term—it would do to set up the house as best she could.

And it had been a dreadfully long time since she got to stay in one place for more than the time it took her to sleep.

Hermione observed the house as she walked back up to it. It was quite indefensible. Alone on the top of a hill, it stood out harshly against the soft grey sky. The short fence and small gate didn’t offer much protection. It could easily be surrounded by anti-disapparation charms and routed. If this was to become her hideaway for a time it would need some heavy wards. 

As well as a kitchen.

She hauled her groceries in, pulled a spare wand from her bag in the side room, and began a makeshift icebox. She could do the wards tomorrow, but the milk would spoil tonight. 

The spell felt like ripping out a bloody tooth. It was worth it.

* * *

The next morning, an owl flew through the spare bedroom window as Hermione dusted. It landed clumsily on the floor and stuck its leg out waiting to be relieved of its burden. 

It was a small letter.

She picked it up and read.

_Dear Miss Hermione Granger_

_Well, you certainly have caught my attention. It is a bit reckless to send your wand through the post is it not? There is a war going on, and I would hate to leave you defenseless._

_My office will be open for floo at 3pm this afternoon, if you would care for some tea._

_Sincerely,_

_Headmaster Armondo Dippet_

There was no wand attached.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uh..hi! this is my first fic that i have actually posted 'publicly' online (after much encouragement from a friend), so let me know what you think. if this fic is even something you want to see more of or any theories you have or typos or anything w/e. and if your confused about smthing thats okay, its supposed to be mostly a mystery that slowly builds up and unravels as you and hermione get more info and figure stuff out. 
> 
> also! if you see any edits, no you don't. i re-edit things a lot just ignore me lol


	2. Orange Tea and Shortbread

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione has tea with the Headmaster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i haven't read the cursed child or watch the fantastic beast movies and probably never will, so anything that is contradicted or not in line with canon, just pretend is more AU shenanigans.

Hermione had never much cared about her appearance. Well, that was just a blatant lie. She cared a great deal about her appearance, but had pretended not to because, really, it was easier that way, wasn’t it? When you're young and don't know _how_ to fit it, it’s comforting to pretend that you just don't _want_ to, right? But then the world ate itself, and that particular mental contortion lost its appeal. Yes, she liked her hair soft and shiny. Yes, it would be nice to wear fancy dresses. Yes, she was jealous of people who were effortlessly put together, but at the end of the world, she would be glad for hot water. So, she rationalized. In the end, her body was a vessel for her mind, and, as long as it functioned properly, what did it matter how terrible she looked? 

It wasn’t nice hair that kept her in one piece, was it? It was quick fingers and a quicker mind. 

Of course, that was all well and good for running from death, but 1940s wizarding culture had a lot to say on a lady's appearance.

Not to mention that she was muggleborn in a time even more prejudiced than her own. She didn’t know if Dippet was also a blood-purist. Though, she suspected not as she had mentioned it in her letter and he had still agreed to a meeting. But, he didn’t have to be a purist not to want a stranger in his school in the middle of an international war. She would need to be put together enough to impress to even be considered.

And, well, she looked like hell.

Her hair was an absolute travesty: frizzy, brittle, and looking like a chimeric rat king. She was concerningly thin with hollow cheeks and dark circles under her eyes. Her entire body was covered in scars. Half of which ached with old dark magic.

A braided silver bracelet concealed the ‘mudblood’ carving, but she could still feel the itch of the curse under her skin.

Hermione had set up some modest accommodations in the second-floor spare bedroom—The _main_ bedroom was in the corner of the second floor and had two large breakable windows. The spare room was more of a closet; off the hallway with a single tiny window, perfectly defensible.—The room had a small cot, dresser, and chest that she had pulled up out of her bag. She’d brought a small desk mirror as well, transfiguring it to full length, so she could at least try to look presentable for the meeting.

There was a small half-closet in the back. Her modern bag was placed in there and positively suffocated in traps. 

After eating breakfast, eggy bread and sausage (Merlin, she loved real _food)_ , she had spent most of the morning setting up alarm wards around the house and grounds, with an extra hex on the trap door. It would take until the next full moon—a date she needed to look up—to properly solidify protection wards to a level that she was comfortable with. Afterwards, she had gotten the water running again, the heating charms previously installed working fine.

There was some sort of preservation ward on the house. Not strong (her wards weren't rebuffed), but _subtle_. Intertwining the house and trees and wind and leaves. It kept things stagnant, thick like honey. Any permanent changes done here had to first convince the house that it was _better_ this way. And since she wasn’t the true owner by name or by blood, she estimated any wards would last about ten days before they started to unravel. 

Hermione had taken a warm shower to wash the stress off, and now she was in a scalding bath to relax. It was a bit novel not to be constantly on the move. Just to sit in the warmth and exist. Though she supposed she would get used to it. She was going to have to return to living in _dorms_. With _children_. God, when was the bathroom roster established? Was she going to have to fight over shower time again? With _Slytherins_? Hermione Granger, Destroyer of Worlds, using all of her ill-gotten power to get the best shower head in the mornings. 

A startled laugh barked out of her at the image, and she relaxed further into the tub. 

Delicately combing out her hair, she closed her eyes for a moment. 

Now would be the best time for her breakdown. Where she could pick up the pieces easily. She had a few hours before she needed to get ready and wasn’t in any immediate danger.

Hermione waited peacefully in her warm pool, slightly miffed that her mental health was in check.

She scrubbed her skin again in the bath, doing her best to wash away stress from fifty years away. The carving itching under her arm was accompanied by dozens of burns from stray curses that she failed to shield. Some shrapnel blast scars dusted her chest, and her legs were mostly clear except for a wretched scar on her left calf from where something had bit and nearly tore her leg off. There were blackened shiny rends across her back. And a long thin jagged white crack of a scar encircled her torso from her right solder, across her breasts and back, to her left side over her fifth rib.

Of course, she only had scars for things she couldn't heal. A puncture or gash hurt, but it didn’t leave a scar the same way magic did.

An hour before the meeting, Hermione lazily sloshed out of the tub to start getting ready. She dressed herself in a new dull green long-sleeve dress, black robe and stockings. It fit well enough to cover but hung oddly on her half-starved body. She towel-dried her hair. A drying charm would leave it frizzed out and tangled. 

In the end, she didn’t look much better.

Her cheeks were still hollow, her eyes still dark, limbs still twigs. Just now with a less tattered wrapper. 

But her body was just a vessel for her mind. And her mind was well-rested, brimming with magic.

* * *

Hermione ate lunch at the Three Broomstick, a cheese and tomato sandwich with extra chips on the side, and spent the rest of the time until her meeting with her head in _Aztec Rituals and their Impact on the Coatl Population of Central America_. A book she had stumbled upon when cleaning out a cupboard in the main bedroom. Perfect for light afternoon reading.

She brought her handbag to pay for the food.

She didn’t bring a spare wand.

Hermione could do wandless magic in an emergency, and it might raise suspicion if she had another. At exactly three she stuffed the book into her bag, went up the fireplace, and flooed to the headmaster’s office. A spray of green fire and she was once again in Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry.

She waited a moment for the nostalgic feeling to come again, waited for Hogwarts to welcome her once more with its brush of magic. 

There was nothing. 

She was of a different time. It didn’t recognize her. Hermione pursed her lips for a moment but tried not to take it personally. 

The room was sparse, not at all like the kitsch during Dumbledore’s tenure. The portraits were there, of course, dozens of previous headmasters taking up the entire wall across from the fireplace. But otherwise, there was a simple large wooden desk off to the side with a grey owl sleeping on a stand. On the opposite wall was the door framed by neatly organized bookcases. Next to the window, there was a single telescope pointing out a window with a small tea table next to it. There were two seats at the table.

One was currently occupied

Armando Dippet was an old man with a short white beard and large navy robes. He had served himself tea and biscuits from a tray and was reading from a scroll unfurled out in front of him. Her wand was next to the empty teacup and saucer at the other setting across from him. When she came out, he looked up.

“Good afternoon,” he said warmly as he stood up, face brightening, and held out his hand, “Hermione Granger, I presume?”

“Yes,” she shook it mildly, doing her best to give the impression of a lady of the time, “Dippet, I presume? Thank you for meeting me on such short notice.” His eyes were warm and brown, but stuttering slightly as he took in her thin face and weak handshake. Interesting, was she the first obvious victim he met during the war? Not likely, but Hermione could still use his discomfort. 

“It’s no trouble,” he motioned toward the table set with tea, “Please, sit.” 

Smoothing the back of her dress, she sat down across from him. Her stomach growled slightly at the sight of the little biscuits; she placed several on her plate. One plain, three blueberry. The tea was something with orange and cloves. Hermione suspected it would have been delicious had she not put too much milk and sugar in it, wanting the extra calories. 

“Your case is quite unusual, isn’t it?'' Dippet started with a slight smile as he sat down, ''I read Ms. Carrel’s recommendation for you. You are quite skilled. But am I to understand you have been schooling in a coven? Why not Beauxbatons?"

“Ah, well, my education was supplemented with some more practical exercises,” she glanced significantly at Dippet, “There is a war going on you know.”

She laid the implication heavy in the air. Hoping that her rough appearance would give a bit more credence to it. She didn’t know if Dippet was aware of Carrel’s true profession; regardless, she wanted to disperse any notion of incompetence.

“I see,” he looked thoughtful, glancing out the window a moment before continuing, “Indeed there is a war going on. So, I would think that someone who learned from someone as skilled as Carrel would know better than to give up her wand.” He pointed at it next to her, and she placed her hand over it lightly. Hermione had used many wands over the years. That was just how war went. But there was a comfort in the little nip of magic that sparked through her fingers at touching her true wand. 

Hermione kept her face neutral. She was surprised that Dippet was so scrutinising. She thought Dumbledore would be the suspicious one. Apparently, wartime bred paranoia. Regardless, she was good at this part, keeping her face impassive under interrogation. Telling half-truths, asking leading questions, letting things unsaid to do most of the work in a conversation. It was just the literal lying part that gave her trouble.

As long as she didn’t directly lie.

“I couldn’t think of another way to get you to take me seriously, and I doubted a headmaster would leave a potential student defenseless.” Okay, off to a good start.

“I suppose you are right,” he smiled warmly again, “It would be heartless of me to leave one such as yourself more vulnerable than you already are.”

Hermione didn’t flinch. She had been subjected to far worse, and maybe he wasn’t even referring to her blood status. Maybe Dippet was just worried about her being covenless and without resources in the middle of a war. 

“One such as myself?” she asked lightly, with all the inquisitiveness of a student.

“A muggleborn,” he clarified. Right, so it was a pointed jab, or at least a demonstration of the casual bigotry of the day. Was Dippet testing her? “You will always be in a more exposed class than your peers. It is a shame that this is our reality; but, it would do us no good to stick our head in the clouds, hoping to stay dry.”

He sipped his tea.

Maybe the test was whether or not she would throw this tea in his face? She took a healthy sip instead and did her best not to grimace at the over-sweet. The forties were going to be exhausting. 

“Right. Well, as to why I'm actually here.”

“Ah yes! You wish to join my school,” his eyes lit up at that, and set his cup onto the saucer, “Good News! I have talked with some of the other professors and, despite the fact that you haven’t taken your OWLs, they agreed that as long as you can keep up, it would be fine,” He gave a slight wag of his finger. “However, the moment your grades slip you'll be back a year until you can pass your levels.”

“Alright,” she said and left her face impassive. He was really just going to let her in that easily? No background checks? No exam? She shouldn’t be ungrateful for the luck, but for a moment Hermione was aghast at his lack of security. She felt an acute pang of sympathy for Dumbledore then, if this was his role model for a Headmaster during wartime. No wonder he was so bad at keeping kids safe.

“Excellent! Then, we will do the sorting now. No time to waste!” he said and got up from the chair. Dippet walked over to the bookcase, pulled out a box, and picked up the Sorting Hat. The hat looked the same. Tattered and torn, patched and worn, dull brown and lopsided. It might have looked the same since it was created.

He walked back over and stood behind her.

“No need to worry Ms. Granger. I’m just going to place this on your head and it will magically decide which House will fit you best.” 

“Okay,” she put her teacup down and straightened a bit. Her occlumency shields were firmly in place, and Dippet lightly placed the hat on her head. 

_Oh, didn’t I just see you. What are you doing back so soon?_ the hat grumbled, unknowingly setting in motion the destruction of Hermione Granger. 

What.

_What?_

Hermione had anticipated a lot of things when deciding to travel to the forties and steal the Deathly Hallows: bigotry, suspicion, fear, nostalgia, having to happily chat with people long dead and their murders, having to wear stockings and bad bras, having to lie and sneak and cheat when she was good at _none_ of those things. 

She had not anticipated _recognition_.

Hermione’s face was smooth as her mind started to unravel.

Why did the Sorting Hat recognize her? Did it remember her from her own time? Did it exist as a superposition? No, that was nonsensical, not to mention impossible. Nothing existed concurrently with itself except for death. It had to be a trick then. Had Dippet set this up? He was being a bit weird with her. Was this his ploy to root out a potential spy? That didn’t make much sense. How was it supposed to work? Just throw her for a loop and hope she let something slip? If she was a spy, she would be trained to avoid being tricked by a _hat_. Besides, how could he convince the hat to mess with her? It was imbued with the founder's magic. Not something that could be casually swayed. Did it recognize her from _another_ Hermione Granger? Had she messed up on the travel spell so bad that she ended up in an alternate reality that _she already existed in_? Was she going to be encountering herself in classes? Would she be competitive? With _herself_? Was Ron here? Was _Harry_?

Loose threads at the end of her mind frayed into smaller fibers to be taken apart and used to stitch something else together. 

Would it tangle? 

Or would it form a perfect loop? 

If she did it right there would be no end, no beginning, just a perfect circle of thread to be wound, bound to what she needed. 

* * *

Was this her breakdown then? That would be embarrassing. She should at least have some privacy for it. No, maybe she just misunderstood.

 _You have met me before?_ She thought outside her shields as mildly as possible, stuffing her madness away.

_Of course, we’ve met! Why have you come round again so soon? It’s usually a little while before you pop up again._

_Can you please tell me what you are talking about?_ She enunciated every word clearly in her mind. Anger sparked in the back of her throat, red hot with nowhere to go. What in the _hell_ was going on?

“Slytherin!” the hat shouted out triumphantly. 

And it was removed before she could get her answer.

Hermione was numb. 

She should have been surprised that she was sorted into Slytherin, but that was superseded by the thing that had happened before that. The thing that was the Sorting Hat knowing her. It knew her. The Sorting Hat? It knew her. The thing that she had only ever met a universe away? That thing? It _knew_ her. 

_It Knew Her._

Her mind wanted to crack open, and Dippet was speaking to her like he had something important to say. 

“... Well, that was a bit of a surprise, I'm not going to lie. I thought you were a shoe-in for Ravenclaw with what Ms. Carrel wrote about you,” he glanced at her too skinny face with a soft eye, “Though it might make a bit of sense. Slytherins are very ambitious and you have the look of hunger about you.”

Well, that jab brought her straight back down to earth. Why was he purposely goading her? Or was he just that oblivious to his own words?

“I took the liberty of picking out your classes for you, based upon Carrel’s recommendation, of course,”—had she put any class recommendations in the letter?—“I have a schedule here.” He pulled out a scroll from the air and handed it over, “and I will have one of your prefects accompany you to Diagon Alley to help get what you need.” He sat back down in his chair and began scribbling a note on some scratch paper.

“I can get whatever supplies myself, thanks.” Her voice sounded hollow even to her own ears.

“Nonsense,“ he called down the owl. It was large and grey with a white ribbon on its leg. “What kind of headmaster would I be if I were to let you go unaccompanied.” He attached the note to the owl and pointed out the window. The owl flew out with a single flap. “Need I remind you again that there is a war going on?” he said with a soft chuckle. 

Hermione bit her cheek hard enough to taste blood and smiled, “Of course. I understand,” She needed to focus. Even if it was only Dippet, she needed to not be half here. Yes, the Sorting Hat knew her—

_It Knew Her._

—that was a problem for later. 

“He should be here in just a few minutes. How is your tea?” He motioned towards her cup and, once again, began drinking out of his. 

“It’s er... great! Thank you for the invitation,” She took a sip,—It was still warm; thank the stars for magic—but hot sugary milk tea was still a bit wretched. 

“Quite a bit of milk there.”

“Yes, I like it that way. With a lot of milk. It’s better... to me,” she cringed at the end. Well, at least Dippet now knew she couldn’t lie worth a damn.

“Good for your bones,” he snickered.

“Mhmm. So, tell me about Slytherin house,” she indelicately changed the subject.

“Ah yes. The House of Snakes,” he faced warmed, “A place for those looking to shape the world. They are a competitive bunch, but are loyal once you’ve proven yourself. And never slip up,“ he chuckled at that, “I'm sure you’ll find a place in the current pecking order quickly enough.”

How magnanimous.

“Were they your house then?”

“Oh no. I was a Hufflepuff! A wonderful House. Easy to make fast friends for life. And their common room is next to the kitchen!” He looked a bit smug at that.

To be fair, she would kill to have that much free food nine months out of the year.

“And the other houses? You said you thought I'd be a Ravenclaw?” The small talk was helping focus her in the now, and it was more time to practice interacting with people. She thought this conversation was going rather well outside the near breakdown with the Hat. 

_It Knew Her._

Focus!

“Yes. They are studious scholars ever in the pursuit of knowledge. Carrel’s letter said you had a knack for researching esoteric magic. Seemed the perfect fit, but Slytherin will suit you just as well. Ravenclaw is more interested in the theoretical than the practical. And, as you said, you have experience with the practical,“ he smiled like they were sharing a secret.

She supposed, in a way, they were.

There was a knock at the door.

“Ah yes! That would be your guide,“ he hustled over to the door and opened it, “Good afternoon, Tom! I have a favor to ask of you. Your classes are done for the day, right? Won’t take an hour or two. Promise.“ The opened door obscured whoever was on the other side, but of course it was him. Hermione wasn’t even surprised. 

Fate loved its ironies. 

Hermione smoothed her face, stilled her body, and reinforced her occlumency shields.

“Of course Headmaster, whatever you need,” came a low, posh voice as Dippet ushered him in. 

Tall, with wavy ink-touched hair, Tom Marvolo Riddle walked through the door. He was sharply dressed in fine black robes, waistcoat, and green tie, and Hermione wondered for a moment how he made a _uniform_ look so indulgent. He moved smoothly, with pin straight posture and hands behind his back, like he expected the world to shape to him as he moved through it. A black hole warping the space-time surrounding it.

His face was sharp as winter and as smooth as virgin snow.

His eyes met hers, black and lifeless as a doll’s.

She could kill him now.

She was quick; could do it before Dippet realised what was going on. Kill Riddle, stun Dippet, take the ring, then floo out. It would take her less than a second. 

_Avada, stupefy_ , ring, leave.

She needed to be across the channel for the wand, and the cloak was off in Potter’s house. She would be a wanted woman, sure, but killing Grindelwald and thieving the Potter cloak wouldn’t be hampered by that. The only one she needed a sterling reputation for was the ring in the castle.

The hardest one to get was Riddle’s. That’s why she started with it.

Hermione curled her fingers around her wand softly. Gently, with all reverence of a child’s first dandelion puff, not wanting to disturb a single seed before she blew them all into the wind. She stood up smoothly and walked over to them, only a head shorter than Riddle. 

“Tom, meet Hermione Granger, our transfer and newly sorted into Slytherin house. Ms. Granger, Tom Riddle, your sixth-year prefect.” Dippet motioned between them as he smiled obliviously and made introductions.

“Pleased to meet you, Miss Granger,” Riddle graciously held out his hand, politely smiling as he looked down at her. His hand had thin fingers, neat nails, the only imperfections being the small calluses that come from wand use.

It didn’t have a ring.

Well, then.

Shit.

“Yes… I—I mean, it is also pleasing. To be meeting... you, that is,” she said, strangling her wand. This is where the luck from Dippet letting her in easily went. Having the Gaunt ring not be in the place that the last fifty years of intel told her it was. _Goddamnit_ , he was supposed to wear it everywhere he went. Was this entire endeavor to get into Hogwarts useless? Was the ring back in fucking Little Hangleton?

She glared at his stupid ringless hand. 

“Indeed,” he returned his hand behind his back, face relaxing into blankness. Still looking down at her.

His eyes were cold.

Hermione doubted very much any emotion had ever touched his eyes. And if something had, it would have immediately died from hypothermia. She wanted to shiver just looking at them. The indifferent emptiness of space held within the eyes of a man. 

Though, she admitted begrudgingly, it could be her own confirmation bias coloring her perception. He had murdered several of her friends and now was disrupting her plans to save the world, she was liable to be uncharitable. Hermione would work on that. She couldn’t afford to judge him as _Voldemort_. It left _Riddle_ as a dangerous blind spot. Maybe _Riddle_ was the type to hide his ring away when meeting a new student. Not yet ready for the overdramatic machinations of _Voldemort_. 

Hermione took another second to assess him from zero. Riddle was tall, black-haired, and distressingly handsome. He held himself with poise, maybe arrogance, but not like a reality-warping black hole. If his eyes were empty, it was just as likely to be from boredom at having to do extra errands as a cruel heart. They were not the void of space; they were just dark.

In 1943, he had already killed at least three people.

Dippet cleared his throat.

She realized she was staring.

“Um, right. Sorry,” she said. 

Dippet glanced between them.

“Alright then!” He said as he clapped his hands together. Bless him for trying to break the awkwardness, “You have the list of things you need. Tom knows where they are in Diagon Alley, don't you?”

“Yes, headmaster,” Riddle said to Dippet, with the full respect that the title asked for, and finally looked away from her.

Dippet shuffled them toward the fireplace, “I'll leave this open until you come back, but no lollygagging! The Leaky Cauldron!” and threw the green powder in. A green flash and Hermione and Riddle were whisked away.

* * *

“Let me see your list.'' Riddle held out his hand lightly, ever the gentleman. One hand still behind his back. 

They had just entered the Alley and the bustle of the street flowed around them. Hermione wanted to be nostalgic from the menagerie of wizard London, but being with Riddle unnerved. A tight ball of anxiety soured her stomach and, for the first time since arriving, she wasn’t even slightly hungry.

“Thank you, but I would like you to know I am perfectly capable of finding supplies on my own,” She handed the list over anyway.

The plan had been to gain Riddle’s trust enough to gain a moment alone with him, incapacitate him—whether that be lethally or not was up to her. She may have just had an especially bloodthirsty moment back there—take his ring, and move on to the Potter’s. The cloak would make getting the wand easier. Then, kill Grindelwald, save the world, and return home.

Easy. A hundred percent fool-proof and not at all a pathetically desperate plan. 

Of course, that was just made a hundred times more difficult by said wizard not having his ring on him at all times, but that was a problem for later. Most likely he still had it, but just didn’t wear it today. 

Maybe he was cleaning it or something. 

It would still be beneficial to try to gain his trust for the moment. Worst comes to worst and he doesn’t have it, Riddle was still her strongest contact to the Gaunts. Maybe he could invite Hermione on holiday and they could steal it together. The _difficult_ question was, how to gain the trust of the most notoriously paranoid wizard of the century?

Hopefully, letting him help her shop would be a good start? She fiddled her fingernail with her thumb.

“I’m sure you are,” he said after a moment. His hair came down a bit in front of his face as he bent over her list. After a moment of reading, he smoothed it back. “We’ll start with the books,” he said and started off toward Flourish and Blotts, not looking back, completely assured that Hermione would follow. Merlin, he was full of himself, wasn’t he?

She walked after him.

“Why did Dippet ask you to accompany me, anyway? Shouldn’t it have been a professor?” she asked as she came alongside him.

“I don't presume to know what the headmaster thinks, but the professors are busy with the forest fire at the moment,” his voice was clear, curling around every syllable.

“Forest fire? What happened?” _This_ distracted her from her annoyance with the ring. There were no records of the Forbidden Forest ever catching fire. Besides that, _how_ could the Forbidden Forest catch fire? Weren’t the centaurs caretakers of it?

“Unclear. The latest theory is that some student tried to dispose of their potions failure incorrectly.” He stuck his hands in his pockets with a stance a hair more casual than in Dippet’s office. 

He was trying to disarm her. 

“Doubtful,” she said. Hermione chewed at her lip. She was here for a mission, but dangling a mystery in front of her? It was too tempting to _not_ try and solve, “unless they were making something to immolate a troll. Scotland is too wet for even a magical fire to really catch.”

Riddle glanced down at her as they walked, “Indeed. Whatever the cause, there is currently an inferno out in the Forbidden Forest. The professors have set up wards to contain it. You can excuse them for not accompanying a new student on a shopping trip.”

“Of course,” she waved her hand absently. He was better at changing the subject than her, but she could recognize what he was doing, “Is it fiendfyre?”

“No.”

“For how long?”

“Eleven days.”

“Well, if it’s contained it would have burnt out by now. There is probably a source in the middle. Maybe a pack of will-o'-wisps?,” she scrunched up her face, knowing immediately that wasn’t it, “But I’ve never heard of them causing a— what did you say?— an _inferno_ ,” she glanced back up at him questioningly.

“It is indeed an inferno. The headmaster called it such.” His voice was perfect, not the slightest edge of sarcasm, and his face was as smooth as ever. His lips didn’t even twitch.

And he was still looking down at her. Out of the corner of his eyes, half-lidded and dark.

“Yes, Dippet,” she grumbled. Mister Let-anyone-into-Hogwarts-during-a-war himself was probably the worst person to let handle an unknown threat. She tapped her nails against one another, thinking, before continuing, “Could it be a cursed object? Someone opened a proverbial Pandora's box? This case, the evils being a raging inferno.”

“Quite possibly. It is doubtful people will ever know unless one of the professors lets it slip.”

“Well, someone’s going to have to go in there and find the source eventually.”

Blotts came into view. It was in a smaller side shop, not the same main street location it would be in a few years time. The wood was painted a light lilac color and the windows were stuffed with copies of _Auntie Agatha’s Wondrous Remedies: Simple Magics for the Smart Witch_. If Hermione remembered correctly, it was a charm book for beauty spells and the like. Preying on the insecurities of school-age witches? In some ways, the magical world was exactly the same as the muggle world.

She wondered if she should pick up a copy.

“Maybe in three months when the holiday starts.” Riddle’s light voice startled her out of whatever insane musings she was having.

“Until then, Hogwarts has a night light?” She matched his tone as they walked up to the entrance. 

“Yes, for those of us afraid of the dark,” he said, holding open the door and gesturing for her to enter before him. She was abruptly reminded that it was the forties and, despite his homicidal tendencies, Riddle was just as bound by societal conventions as the next wizard.

“How many professors teach here, anyway?” she asked as he came in behind her.

Ever the same, Flourish and Blotts held a veritable paradise of books. Normally, she would be eager to see what new things she would be studying this year, not to mention get a head start on reading, but she had already done sixth year. So, really, there wasn’t much to be excited about. She doubted there would be anythin—

A small stack of blue books with the words _Missy’s Medley of Mischievous Miracles: A Primer on Simple Sympathetic Transfigurations_ engraved on the spine rested on the end card of a shelf of otherwise innocuous books.

Hermione fully stopped.

“Twenty professors, not including the care-taking staff, for teaching a student body of nearly five hundred.” His voice was low, now that they were in the store, but still clear.

She couldn’t hear it.

_There was absolutely no way this was here._

Except there was every way it was here.

It hadn’t been banned until 1954, when the author, Melissa Townsend, had used the books to rob the houses of several of the Wizengamot. There was a modified trace rune printed in every copy sold, letting her know exactly where each book was whenever she cared to check. It also acted as an anchor for a blind apparition that let her slip through other wards that surrounded a place. Because the book was in, she was in. It was a simple, dense, brilliant piece of magic. Townsend, here, was still a well-renowned author, and not exposed as a thief.

All known copies were, of course, burned once the scandal broke.

Hermione dashed over, leaving Riddle and an unanswered question—or, wait, had he answered it?— She searched over the copies, looking for the one most well-worn. It was always good to pick a book with a slightly rough edge. They were grateful for it and made reading them easier.

Magic books were weird.

A slightly scuffed copy three from the bottom spotted her. She placed a finger on the edge and pulled it out. Her hand only shook slightly.

Hermione started reading.

_Thank you for picking up a copy of Missy’s Medley of Mischievous Miracles. In this eclectic tome, you will find spells and techniques that I have scoured the globe for. The deepest jungles, the richest palaces, the driest desert. Every place can provide you with unique magic if you are simply polite enough to ask._

She snorted. _Yes, I'm sure Missy was very polite when she robbed a dozen lords._ Trust a thief to be overdramatic. She began flipping through the book. Was the rune in an illustration? There was a very detailed study of some kind of half-porcupine half-otter looking creature looking very fluffy from a cleaning spell, but nothing in the shape of magic. Maybe in the illustration of a man cutting—

The supply list fluttered into the middle of her book.

She looked up into the dark eyes of Riddle. He had meandered over and was standing close enough that she could reach out and touch him. His face was mild, the only expression a slight raise of an eyebrow. She wondered if he was annoyed, bored, or contemplating killing her.

“That book isn’t on the list,” his reproach was quiet, maybe a hair closer to exasperation to play the part of the put upon prefect.

“It’s alright. I'll be picking this one up just for myself,” she put it under her arm, excited to go over it with a fine-toothed comb later. 

“That’s an archaic household charm book. Nothing more advanced than a second-year’s chores. You shouldn’t bother," he said without inflection. 

“Oh? Have you read it?.” Had he found the rune? Doubtful, as he thought it uninteresting. 

“Yes, when I was in second-year."

“Did you notice anything odd about it?” she cocked her head slightly, briefly imagining a twelve-year-old Riddle. He must have been a terror.

“The transfigurations were especially rudimentary,” he said. Hermione thought for a moment that he would roll his eyes, but his face remained implacable. 

“Hm. Do you still have your copy?” 

“Yes.”

“Could I borrow it sometime?” This was a good way to build trust right? Small favors lead to big favors etcetera, etcetera. Hermione didn’t need to save the galleons—she had a veritable bank in her purse—but it would be better not to flaunt it in front of Riddle. 

Riddle looked down at her for a moment, face utterly blank. Her occlumency shields were pristine. He wasn’t trying to root around in her mind. 

“If you want to, but, truly, if you are in desperate need of fundamentals, there are better books available,” Ah, he had been searching for an effective but casual barb. Is that how he bared his teeth? Not with tone, but language? How passive-aggressive.

“I don’t need fundamentals, but there might be something interesting you overlooked,” she bit back lightly.

Well, Hermione was nothing if not a hypocrite. 

“Of course,” he said a hair sharper but not breaking his supposed lightness. There. There was a bit of an edge to his voice. It was like a cold snap, suddenly here and gone, only leaving the memory of it.

She shivered. Why had she goaded him? She was here to gain his trust. Where was her mind?

“I don't want to rush you, but we do have a lot of shopping ahead of us,” he said and started walking toward the school book section, a few rows near the front with books stacked haphazardly high.

“Right,” she followed, “What’s on the list.”

“The advanced potions, runes, transfigurations, defense, and divination books. _Standard Sixth-year Charms_ —”

“Wait,” her blood ran cold. The anxiety over the Hallows, the hat, Riddle, and her mission was flooded over by a dread much worse, “Am I taking Divinations?”

“It’s on the list,” he held out the paper between two fingers.

Hermione read over her class schedule.

_Ancient Runes, Drucilla Ganders—Monday upon the hour of 9am and Wednesday 1pm_  
_Arithmancy, Della Ambarella—Mon 10am, Wed 2pm_  
_Charms, Sable Reynards—Mon 1-4pm_  
_Defense Against the Dark Arts, Galatea Merrythought—Tues 9-12pm, Fri 1-4pm_  
_Care of Magical Creatures, Silvanus Kettleburn—Tues 1pm, Thurs 1pm_  
_Divination, Gordon Hemlock—Tues 2pm_  
_Transfiguration, Ablus Dumbledore—Wed 1-4pm_  
_Astronomy, Robin Irbis—Wed*_  
_Potions, Horace Slughorn—Thurs 9-12pm_  
_Herbology, Lindsey Loriss—Thurs 2pm, Friday 9am_  
_History of Magic, Cuthbert Binns—Fri 10am_

_*Astronomy will have a variable slot depending on the weather and season. Talk to your professor if you have any questions._

Absolute violence welled up within her. 

No wonder Dippet had shuffled them out so quickly. He hadn’t been trying to diffuse the awkwardness. He knew she was going to murder him as soon as she got back. Bloody plan be _damned_ , she was not going to sit through bloody sixth-year Divinations.

“Huh,” Hermione said aloud and wondered idly what her face looked like.

Riddle started plucking out the books she would need and looked over at her again, not moving his head, just his eyes, leaving them lidded and sly.

“Not good at Divinations?”

“It’s a useless discipline only good for rooting out people gullible or self-involved enough to trust it,” she nearly shouted at him. Her voice was venomous and, for a moment, she thought she saw actual surprise flicker through his eyes, gone before she could be sure.

“It’s also a highly regarded field of magic the world over and has been around longer than most formal spells. You truly don’t think it has value? Understanding the chaos of the universe?” he said lightly. He was still pulling out books, doing his best to be the helpful prefect, but the question set her off. 

“Well, first, there is actually very little chaos in the universe, and assuming so is just a blind excuse to not anticipate the consequences of your own actions,” she ranted. Oh dear, he really found the right thread to pull, didn’t he? Not even an hour with Riddle and he found a sore. This was going to be a disaster. “Even if _I_ don't know _why_ something happens, doesn’t mean there’s not a reason for it whether that be cultural, chemical, or magical.”

“And second, Divination has nothing to do with understanding the universe! It has to do with making vague guesses at the universe _solely_ through the lens of your own biases. Absolutely worthless!” She was exasperated at him, at Dippet, at the stupid ring that wasn’t where it was supposed to be, and let the anger burn off on something that didn’t really matter. Besides, it wasn’t something that really could be used against her, “You can show the same tea leaves to five different people and get five different interpretations. If a magical practice tells you more about the _person_ interpreting it than the actual _result_ , then it is only useful in psychoanalysis not foretelling.”

He half turned toward her, posture casual, placing the books he’d picked up sideways on top of the shelves, “Doesn't that make it more accurate, though? The interpretation?—”

“How could that possibly make it more accurate?” she scoffed. 

Riddle’s eyes flashed something dark and violent, and Hermione wondered how often he was interrupted. 

“—If you give five different master diviners the same tea leaves, and they all give the same result. You can be assured of its accuracy.”

“Or, you can be assured of their similarities. Interpretation is by definition subjective. If five different people gave the same answer, I would assume they were taught by the same person. Or, maybe, with the same books.” Merlin _,_ why was she still arguing about this? Just let it go. She needed Riddle to trust her, not strangle her, “If you want to foretell a person’s action just look at their patterns of behavior. I can assure you looking at the past is a much better indicator than a crystal ball.”

“And what if you are trying to look into the past?” He fully turned toward her now, relaxed, voice light, whatever darkness was in his eyes before hidden away, “If I wanted to know what happened in a house, say, twenty years ago. What other option do I have than to use Divination?”

“Ask someone who was there. Even the fallible memory of a human is more accurate than mediating on a crystal ball.”

“People lie.”

“And how many accurate visions have you had Mr. Riddle?” Was she being overdramatic? Yes, but also—

“Several,” he said, casually. His face was smooth, impassive, not a hair out of place. Eyes looking down on her _again_. 

Hermione was bombarded with the overwhelming urge to rush into his mind and see if he was lying. It passed quickly, she was not _that_ reckless, despite all evidence; it really wouldn't be worth getting into an all-out duel with him over _Divinations_ , because even if she won—unlikely, they were surrounded by witches and wizards likely to intervene on behalf of a Hogwarts student _—_ Riddle didn’t have the stone on him. 

“Really?”

“Yes,” he stated plainly.

Either he was a very good liar—which he was—or had actually had a vision or two. She remembered _Voldemort_ placed great faith in prophecy; it would make sense that it started when he was in school. But, he _was_ a good liar; he could just be saying anything to get under her skin. What had Dippet said? Something about the Slytherin pecking order? Was that what this was? An effort to feel her out, rile her up, see what makes her tick. 

She went with the latter. Mostly because she hated Divination and refused to entertain any idea that would make her think about it longer than strictly necessary. 

“What were they about?” she questioned sharply. 

“That’s a bit personal is it not, Ms. Granger?” He didn’t blink. Black eyes flat against hers.

“I suppose—”

“Furthermore,” he continued over her. Was he being petty for the interruption earlier? “even if Divination wasn’t useful for gathering _specific_ information, it would still be able to predict the larger trends of fate. For how long were Seers telling visions of ruin before Grindelwald started his war? Years? How can you accurately predict how entire societies change without asking on the strings of fate?”

“Sociology,” she huffed.

“Hmm?” His eyes tightened fractionally. If she wasn’t so focused on them, she would have missed it.

“Sociology, the study of how groups of people interact and react to each other depending on a variety of factors. Race, class, gender, religion, and a dozen other factors all contribute to how people behave toward each other,” she explained.

“That is a muggle science,” his tone was neutral, but another flash of something in his eyes. Dead before Hermione could identify it. 

“Well, yes, but so is Newtonian physics, but you don't see wizards scoffing at gravity.”

“I just don’t think muggle ‘Sociology’,” he over-enunciated the syllables like it was a foreign word; Hermione realized that she wasn’t the only overdramatic bitch in this conversation, “could have much to say about how wizarding society works.”

“But Divination does? Why, because it’s an old useless tradition that people still cling to despite it being superseded by superior methods? Never mind, I see exactly how it fits in with magical society,” her sarcasm didn’t seem to bother him as something finally, _finally_ , stayed in his eyes long enough to identify. 

Triumph. 

“You had a bad Divination teacher,” His lips curled up, not enough to be called a smile—or even really a smirk—but just enough to expose his teeth. For the half-second his mouth twitched, his eyes crinkled, and Tom Riddle looked like he had just solved Hermione Granger.

And suddenly, his full attention was on her. Black eyes sharply took her in, her brittle hair, too-thin face, ill-fitting clothes. Abandoning any pretense of relaxation, his posture turned pin-straight and he leaned toward her, hands behind his back. 

Her body warmed and she tensed ready for a fight. Her hand on her wand in her pocket and a curse on her tongue. 

Riddle’s eyes caught hers again, full and bright and utterly _satisfied_.

For one hysterical moment, Hermione thought him beautiful. 

And then, the spike of someone trying to get into her mind. 

It was immediately rebuffed by her occlumency shields, of course, but he didn’t have to be _rude_ about it. There were ways of getting into people’s heads that didn’t hurt at all. She hadn’t even tried to kill him yet.

He blinked but continued on, unaffected by her mental rebuff, “Probably your first teacher of the subject. Hmm? When you were young? Muggleborn, fresh to the wizarding world, and still trying to fit it in. You're clever enough, and, most likely, took to the precision of most magic well, but Divination stumped you.” His entire body was tightly controlled. The only motion being his lips as he spoke. A taut harp string being plucked just for her.

“Too imprecise, too interpretive. You voiced your struggles, of course. It was embarrassing to admit you didn’t excel at something, but it would be worse to outright _fail_. But they didn’t care, did they? Was it because you were a muggleborn? They thought you incapable because of your blood, and it soured you on the subject.” Riddle ran a hand through his hair, messing it slightly, and his entire body released the tension he was holding. Like sugar dissolving into tea.

“Tell me, Ms. Granger, do you secretly think they were right?” His voice hadn’t changed, still the light casual tone of their entire conversation, but she was struck with a dozen memories of Ron saying ‘Checkmate.’

Any then she was struck with another memory of Ron, bloody, cold fingers, Harry—

Don’t _THINK_ about it.

Don’t.

 _THINK_...

Focus.

She swallowed.

“That is irrelevant,” Her voice didn’t shake. Her name was Hermione Jean Granger. She was in Flourish and Blotts, talking to Tom Marvolo Riddle about how shitty Divination was. He had tried to hurt her with memories of old wounds. It had worked, just not with the specific memories he’d tried to evoke. And she was used to this particular wound, “Divination is hogwash, doesn’t matter who the teacher is.”

“It’s relevant to your hatred of the subject.” He smiled indulgently at her, eyes empty once again; whatever interest in her, gone once he solved the puzzle, “For such a seemingly clever girl, your dismissal of an entire school of magic is, ironically, very personal.”

“And for such a seemingly clever boy the only way you can defend said magic is to change the subject to my likes and dislikes, instead of engaging with what I'm actually saying.”

“Well, I disagree with the degree to which your own bias influences a properly focused reading, and I have no reference for ‘Sociology’, so your expectation for me to engage with that is nothing more than a rhetorical trap.”

“Oh.” 

“Hmm, yes ‘Oh’. Very eloquent, Ms. Granger.”

“Do you want some books on it?” She didn’t know why she offered it. Maybe as a peace offering? But truthfully, her mouth spoke before her brain caught up with it. Hermione had never refused to educate someone if they asked for information—except when being tortured—and, she guessed, Tom Marvolo Riddle was no exception. 

Huh. 

Riddle cocked his head slightly to the side and looked down at her, eyes over-lidded once again. “Do you have some?”

“Er,” she scrunched up her face. She needed a trip to muggle London for some maps, more clothes, news, _money_. She could pick up some extra muggle books, “I can get some,” she looked up at him, “Consider it a fair trade? _Mischievous Miracles_ for some Sociology primers?”

He thought about it a moment before giving a soft, “Alright.”

“Alright,” Hermione took a breath and turned back to the shelves of books, “What else is on the list?”

“ _Flesh-Eating Trees of the World_ , _Stitching Dragonhide: Triage for Beasties_ , _Spell Variance through the Ages, Astronomics: Celestial Guidance, Advanced Arithmancy_ , and _Intermediate Curse-breaking_.”

“At least I'm in Arithmancy,” she mused softly.

Riddle blinked at her. “You like Arithmancy, but not Divination?” his voice veered into disbelief, cracking the light tone he’d had. 

“Ye—

“They are the same subject,” he said. If she didn’t know any better, she would say his voice was positively _heated_. He was _very_ annoyed at the interruption earlier, wasn’t he?

“No, they're not. They are used for similar things. For—how did you put it?—understanding the seeming chaos of the universe. It’s just that, one uses concrete data and has reproducible results. Divination you guess. Sometimes correctly.”

“You’re being absurd,” he scoffed. 

“No, I'm being truthful. Which do you prefer?” She glanced up at him. Unexpectedly, Hermione was genuinely curious. Oh, She knew Riddle had a bias for Divination, from the way their conversation had been going, what threw her was that she wanted to know _why_ he preferred it. Better understanding the enemy she supposed. 

“Divination. It is less accurate as you say, but you can ask broader questions. With arithmancy, you are limited to asking what you have data for.”

“Even if nine times out of ten, you get the wrong answer?”

“The odds aren’t as bad when you know what you're doing.” Riddle looked down at her strangely. Another _something_ , flickering in his black eyes, “Will you need a tutor?”

Fuck. 

That was the play, wasn’t it? To gain his trust? Stay in Divinations and be miserable. Have _Tom Riddle_ as her tutor? 

Fate loved its ironies.

A tired “Maybe” was the best she could do as they finished collecting her books; Hermione placed _Mischievous Miracles_ back where she found it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi again! idk how long this story will be, but i think about 50 chapers maybe?? hopefully not longer than that. its a slow burn, but i have the 'arcs' kinda outlined, just have to actually write them. also yes i made a little spreadsheet to make sure her classes would line up correctly. I know nothing about pottermore, so idk if they have schedules, but i wanted wizard magic school to make at least some sense. please let me know if you see any typos!
> 
> this chapter is actually broken in half(lol). it was getting a bit long. so the next chapter will be kinda a conclusion of this more than Plot. and im sorry if i dont reply to comments and stuff. i'm um...really shy and not used to more than like two other people reading anything i write lol OTL but i read every one! and thank you<3


	3. An Extra Pie for Dinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione has dinner

Hermione and Riddle stopped at Madam Malkin's next, getting the uniforms she would need in Slytherin green. Then, it was off to the apothecary to pick up a cauldron and supplies. She picked up the _Superior Standard Stock for School - 6th year_ , instead of the basic—there were some interesting substitutions that she could try with the more exotic ingredients. And finally, Simone’s Stupendous Sundries where she picked up the rest of the equipment she would need, including the things she would need for sixth-year Divinations.

She frowned at the unfamiliar tools. The crystal ball and tarot deck were obvious, but what did she need a sewing needle and thread for?

She picked up some odds and ends along the way, of course; Hermione was starting from scratch here. She needed _inks_ for god's sake. Altogether, there was quite a haul at the end of the day. Riddle graciously, wordlessly shrank the trunks when finished, turning a dozen books and boxes into something to fit in her pocket. 

She politely thanked him and didn’t even interrupt him once this time. 

See? She _could_ practice her manners. 

In fact, it would probably be more beneficial to practice with a dark lord. He was trying to convince the word of his harmlessness; she could do the same. Well, to a degree, Hermione still couldn’t lie to save her life.

They returned to the Leaky Cauldron as the sun was setting over the shops. It was just unfamiliar enough to unsettle; the tables were less clustered together, the walls sparser with unfamiliar flyers. The amber of twilight softened the pub, casting warmth into an otherwise stark environment. It hadn’t taken that long, truly; it was just the natural consequences of high roofs and an English October.

It wasn’t that late at all.

Hermione’s stomach growled regardless.

Riddle glanced down at her. She blushed.

“Shall we stop for a bit? The Cauldron has excellent pies,” he said lightly, face studiously blank.

“I’m fine; it's really no trouble. Let's just get back, and I can eat at home.”

“Nonsense,” he said and brought them over to a table in the corner, away from the green dust of the fireplace, “If I were to return you to Headmaster Dippet hungry, he would no doubt deduct a hundred points. I would be the pariah of Slytherin.” 

“Are you not already?” She followed. No use arguing; she _was_ hungry, “Prefects can't be that popular among the general student body. Given special privileges to report on your fellow student must have made the dorms awkward at times.” She remembered her own time as the glorified student police, and the piles of stress it heaped on her. Riddle probably didn’t have the same issue. No doubt he reveled in the power. 

“At times, but the benefits outweigh the harm. Here.” 

He pulled out a chair and stood behind it. 

Hermione blinked for a moment uncertain what he was doing. Was he going to attack her with it? No, they were in the center of wizarding London; it would be ludicrous to harm her here. Was he just showing it off? It was... a fine chair, a little rough around— 

Oh! She walked over and sat in it, giving a quiet, “Thank you,” as he stood behind and slid in the chair for her. It was the forties. This was normal behavior of a gentleman. 

Tom Riddle smelled like spice and citrus. Strangely, she thought of Christmas. 

“I’ll go fill our orders,” he said quietly as he came back around her. He removed his outer cloak and placed it behind the chair opposite her, leaving him just in a white starch shirt, waistcoat, and Slytherin-green tie, “Steak or vegetable?”

“Steak, please.” 

Riddle half-nodded and walked away, back straight with hands in his pockets. Hermione glanced down at the robes he’d left. Is that where he kept his ring? Doubtful, most likely it was in a hellaciously hexed box at the bottom of his underwear drawer.

God, _why_ wasn’t he wearing it? It was his _trophy_. The one object that proved that he was more than a muggleborn orphan. Undeniable proof of his heritage. He’d _murdered_ for it. 

She glanced back up to him at the counter, politely smiling at the person taking his order. Perfectly normal in every way. 

Riddle was _good,_ wasn’t he? Engineering every situation to leave the exact impression desired. Sharply clean-cut, pristine uniform, manners enough to make a lady blush, all while maintaining an air of intimidation and untouchability. It was effortless for him.

He was so damned tall, dark-eyed, and with wretchedly _perfect_ hair. If she was anyone else, she would be spellbound. Even as it was, Hermione was still distracted by his full attention in the bookshop. No wonder he managed to enrapture the gentry.

Tom Marvolo Riddle had all the charms of a prince and all the shrewdness of a hag.

Comparatively, Hermione had all the charms of a hag and the shrewdness of someone who has been in life-threatening situations since she was eleven. 

Curious as to why he was using his charms on her. 

As likely as not, it was just his default state and he couldn’t be bothered to turn it off.

Riddle came back with two steaming pies, and her mouth watered violently. Maybe she was hungrier than she thought. “Here you are,” he said as he set them on the table.

“Thank you,” she mumbled and dug in, not waiting for him to sit. Impolite, but she _was_ hungry.

“You’re welcome,” he said and sat down. Hermione waited for him to pick up his fork, but he didn’t. He just watched her, fingers propping up the side of his face, head ever-so-slightly tilted. 

Eyes flat black and focused on her. 

Hermione continued eating. He was being rude, staring at her like that, slightly cracking the polite schoolboy persona that he cloaked himself in. The least she could do was wait for him to bite. She was trying to gain his trust after all.

It still unnerved. The way Riddle watched her. Never shifting his head to look at her like a person, but glancing out the bottom of his eyes like she was a strange spider crawling on the floor.

“You are a transfer from a coven in France,” he finally said, his voice low and quiet in the cool evening of the pub. A softer bite than she had anticipated, but he was nothing if not circumspect.

“You are wondering why I sound English.” 

“Among other things.” Riddle was still, eyes following every twitch of her face, fingers, lips, no doubt trying to discern any deceptions on her tongue. She could tell him he needn’t try so hard, but it was amusing to see him expend so much effort on something she was terrible at. 

“My parents were English ex-patriots. Father was a dentist. We spoke English in the house.” 

Hermione would not tell one lie. It was the only strategy available to her. Lies would tangle, strangle her before Tom Marvolo Riddle had the chance. She had woven time and space with a deft hand, but to match Riddle in his own web? A greater hubris than chasing death.

“It must have been a shock to them, once your magic came in.” Riddle was doing the same thing as before, controlling his body, only allowing his lips to move as he spoke. 

She wondered if this is what he looked like in a duel. Just the flick of a wand and enough movement to doge, wasting nothing. It certainly was not how _Voldemort_ dueled, all chaos and raw, overwhelming power. 

“There was a week or two, I remember, where they contemplated exorcism,” she said between bites. She should probably stop eating and pay proper attention to him, but Riddle was right. The pie was excellent, “but I was always well behaved, not speaking in tongues, or walking up walls. They dismissed it out of hand.” All true. Of course, later she had learned her father had just watched a scary movie, and Hermione had wildly misinterpreted their joking, “Once a witch approached us, I think they were just relieved to finally have an explanation for all the flying books.”

“And your coven was French?” If he was put off by her eating, he didn’t show it. Still staring at her eyes looking for lies. 

“Millicent Carrel is the name of the head witch. She’s an archivist who works with the French Ministry from time to time.” 

“What did you study?”

“The focus for most of my studies was on charms, actually. Then, when the war started, it shifted to defense. But I’ve had a broad education.”

“And what led you to transfer.”

“Carrel is a Hogwarts alumnus. Grindelwald’s war made France difficult for muggleborns. I ended up here.”

Riddle was not going to catch her. At least not here and now. Hermione knew her own limits better than he did. Maybe in the future, when he could catch her off guard with a stray question, but she had practiced _this_ backward and forwa—

“And you parents? How do they feel about you being a country away?”

Hermione flinched. 

Riddle watched her.

“They… died a while ago,” she said quietly, stiffly. She looked at the delicious, warm, _fresh_ pie and hoped it was true. That they’d died quickly, unexpectedly, without the horror that would twist the world later. 

They’d been in Australia, safely away from the war. It was her choice to take their memories. Her _choice_. She thought she’d be able to undo it when everything was over. 

But nothing ever really ends, does it? 

And fate _loved_ its fucking ironies. 

With the destruction of the Elder Wand, something went _wrong_ with magic, simple spells would go wildly out of control. More complex magic became overwhelming enough to suffocate. A simple lumos from a child would shine bright enough to blind, and a single killing curse could wipe out a building. 

Some took advantage, some hid away, most were just hurt.

Hermione had put off finding her parents until it was fixed. It was no use saving them from Death Eaters if they would be destroyed by volatile magic they had no hope of protecting themselves against. And England was at the epicenter of it all. 

_It would be better_ , she’d thought, _to wait until everything was safe before bringing her parents back into the magical world. And besides, it wasn’t as if getting to them would be easy. Portkeys were broken, brooms refused to listen, apparition always left bits of you spliced._

Of course, that was paradise compared to what happened when the _stone_ was destroyed. 

“I’m sorry,” he said softly, bringing her back to reality. She glanced back up at him, surprised that his voice was capable of such gentleness, “It must be… horrific to lose your family to such violence,” Riddle had rearranged his features into someone puppeting sympathy. Even his eyes had a bit of warmth to them. He must really want her to believe him if he was putting in the extra effort.

“It’s okay. I’m okay. It was a long time ago.” Hermione mustered up a smile. This wasn’t what she was here for. It was fine to give Riddle a supposed weakness, but it wouldn’t do to distract him with it. She needed him focused on how _useful_ and _trustworthy_ she was. 

“That does not necessarily make it better.”

“I have experience with it,” she said lowly and returned to eating the pie. 

“Were you very involved in the war effort?” he said lightly, tone still edged with sympathy. 

There it was. The actual question he wanted to ask, so delicately wandered towards like a snake in a meadow.

She had to hand it to him. Taking a detour to slice open an old wound, trying to make her vulnerable enough to divulge her own contributions, was an adept play. Because, obviously, her parents were dead; she had used past tense when referring to them, and how else had she ended up out of a coven, in the middle of a war, with nowhere else to go.

“Involved enough.” She couldn’t give it to him, of course. There was nothing to give. She had never been involved in _this_ war, just one that would be caused by _him_. 

“Avoiding the question, Ms. Granger?” Riddle’s voice was light, unaffected, bordering on _teasing_ , but his eyes narrowed for a moment as a finger played over his bottom lip. 

“It’s not something I should be freely discussing out in mixed company,” she gestured to the slowly filling Cauldron. 

He surreptitiously glanced over to the fireplace as a group of witches flooed in, “Fair.”

“Have I answered all your questions, Mr. Riddle? Is the interrogation over?” She was almost done with her pie. 

“Is that how you see us having a conversation? An interrogation?” He had on some sort of strange ghost of a smile, to soften the coldness of his eyes.

It didn’t work. 

“Conversations usually have two people asking questions.”

“Alright. What would you like to ask me?” Riddle relaxed his body and leaned back in his chair; his neat fingers drifted to the table. Opening up his body language to appear genuine. 

_Where is your bloody ring?_

“Why did you try to use legilimency on me earlier?” she said casually, doing her best to mimic his lightness of tone.

Riddle’s eyes sharpened to scalpels while he remained keenly relaxed. “How did you learn occlumency?” he said, voice low and obstinately casual.

“Avoiding my questions Mr. Riddle?” she teased.

He frowned, “No, I’ll answer in a moment. I'm just curious as to—”

“Why would a person in the middle of a war over the validity of their existence would learn to shield their mind?” Hermione raised her eyebrows and infused as much scorn in her voice as she was able. _Why, yes, Riddle that was a stupid question_ , “To keep secrets of course. Now, will you answer my question?”

A huff came out of him, bleeding frustration, further cracking his mask, “You were taught to shield your mind, but weren’t taught a bit of tact?”

“Not really. Other people did that. I did research.”

He leaned forward and looked at her deeply, eyes void black surrounded by soft inky lashes. “You must have been good at it if they trusted you enough to help with the war,” he murmured quietly, lazy lips carefully keeping his voice low. 

“You aren’t as good as you think you are, fluttering your eyelashes at me, trying to distract me with compliments and a pretty face. If you don't want to answer my question, you can just say so.” 

“I’m not trying to compli—”

“No, your primary goal is not to _compliment_ me but to gild your tongue until I am mesmerized by the spectacle. You would think you’d save your efforts on a more difficult question.” She took another bite of her pie. 

“You would do to learn some manners,” he practically snapped. His voice never lost to the edge of propriety but, finally, came up to it with teeth flashing out, “It’s rude to interrupt people, you know.” 

“It’s rude to not answer a person’s question after specifically inviting them to ask you _any_ questions.”

“You’re relentless,” he said, eyes frigid, body still. 

“Thank you,” Hermione flushed red and smiled, mouth wide and showing her incisors. It was probably a horrifying visage with her gaunt, skeletal cheeks. Riddle glanced at her mouth and blinked. “But, I’m still not distracted. Your use of legilimency was not only rude but reckless. In the middle of a shop, with an unknown witch? I could be dangerous. What were you so interested in learning that you would take such a risk?”

“You’re right,” he said and lifted a shoulder slightly, “It was reckless. I thought you would be unable to sense it. My misstep.” Not sense it with how he had practically stabbed into her mind? Did he truly think her that unskilled?

“I am also not distracted by false retreats.” She looked at him full-on, leaning in, trying to force Riddle to look at her fully for once. She should drop it, she knew, but now she was curious. Why was he so studiously avoiding the question. “Why did you do it?” 

He observed her for a moment, took in her bad hair, face, clothes, “I wanted to see if I was right. About why you don't like divinations,” he said simply.

“That’s it?”

“Yes.” His eyes were genuine, soft. Hermione guessed he was lying; if he had told the truth, they’d be empty, cold. It would be hilarious if his tell was sincerity. 

“Alright. Next question—,” she started as she finished her pie. 

“Are you interrogating me, now?” A _something_ flickered in his eyes, too quick to grab.

“I thought interrupting was rude,” she reproached. He blinked flatly. Hermione continued, “What decides the Slytherin pecking order?”

Riddle cocked his head.

“Dippet mentioned it. You're a prefect; you should know,” she said.

He gave a half nod, “Blood first, obviously. Slytherin was a proponent of blood-purity and his house reflects that. The right name can open any door," he said and gave a little twirl of his finger. His tone started to slip into the cadence of a lecturer, “Then, it usually breaks down by year. The older you are, the more people you know, the more _favors you're owed_ , the more influence you have over the goings-on of the House.” She remembered that he’d once asked for a professorship, and begrudgingly concluded that he’d make a good speaker. He had the voice for it, “After that, it is just your own ambition; even a younger Slytherin can rise if they have enough cunning.”

“I noticed you did not say capability,” she said after mulling it over a moment

“Without the desire and the skill to navigate politically, capability is just a dangerous outlier.”

“Disagree,” she said. Riddle opened his mouth to argue further, and she finished quickly, “But last question: what do you use for your hair?”

He blinked twice, mouth still open, tongue trying to form the argument to her last statement before he transitioned to: “What?”

“It has a little curl to it, doesn’t it?” Hermione said and lifted a finger to point, not at all feeling extremely satisfied throwing him for a loop, “Even as short as it is. But still nicely untangled. I have some products I use, but they will run out soon. And, obviously, I can’t go into Paris and buy some more.” Also, her preferred brand didn’t even exist yet, “What do you use?”

“A… soap, I think. From Bonnie’s Boons.” 

“The yellow shop next to Malkin’s?”

“Yes.”

“Can we stop over? I know we’re done, but I would like to pick it up anyway”

Riddle took a deep breath and looked at her the way people do when they’re trying not to roll their eyes, “How about this, you finish your pie, and I'll go out and get it for you.”

“I am finishe—”

Riddle slid his warm untouched pie over to her.

Hermione’s entire body flushed, and, horribly, her eyes grew hot. And some terrible part of her, born from one too many nights of starvation, deemed Tom fucking Marvolo Riddle _‘safe’_. 

The rest of her instincts screamed that this was just simple manipulation—she was half-starved, obviously, she would be manipulated by food—but she couldn’t help giving a half-choked, “Thanks.”

“You are welcome,” he said softly as he stood up, not looking at her. Hermione wondered if he was being polite about her shining eyes, or was pretending to be. It didn’t really matter though, did it? He continued, “I have another errand to run anyway. An order to pick up for a friend. Will you be fine here for half an hour?”

“I’ll be fine. Please, go do what you need.”

“Thank you,” he said as began putting on his robes, “Do you have a particular scent you like?”

“Anything’s fine.”

She was still sitting at the table, and, with all of his height, the angle that he looked down his eyes at her was truly remarkable, “I told you ambition was important to success here, and part of that is knowing your own limits—”

“I'm getting stuff to make my hair nice, aren’t I?”

Riddle bowled over her. How rude. “—I don't think you will do well in Slytherin as you are, without allies. If someone is courteous enough to ask your opinion, give them an answer.”

“Just any random someone, not a particular someone right now trying to disguise his curiosity with oh-so-friendly advice?”

“You're heartless.” He not-smiled, showing teeth, and again that _something_ in his eyes. There and gone like the tongue of a snake.

“I’m sorry,” she lied unconvincingly, “It’s just not something I’ve thought about in a while. I usually get what can get, and have to be satisfied with it”

“What kind of scent would you prefer?” Riddle said after a breath. 

Hermione closed her eyes and pictured the last time she was at true _peace_ , the winter holiday in fifth year. She’d sat in the quiet library, not even reading really, just sitting at the window with a book in her hands, watching snowfall muffle the landscape outside. A white curtain closing out the year. A blank slate to start the new one. 

The patronus charm had been tricky. Not a true charm at all, more of a conjuration. But also not? There was something else, something she was _missing_. How she wished Harry actually paid attention to what his magic was doing when he cast the spell. She just needed more _information_. 

But she would get it eventually. 

There wasn’t a spell on earth that she had failed to learn once she set herself on it. It would just take some time. And the snow was so slow, smugly ignoring gravity as it meandered down at whatever pace it chose. If nature could take its time, assured that it would reach its destination regardless, couldn’t she? She could save everyone. 

She _would_. 

She fell asleep in the silent library and had no nightmares. 

Hermione opened her eyes to see Riddle watching her. Eyes not flat-cold and empty, or filled with false sincerity, but watching her face with a simple curiosity like she was a new specimen to catalogue and pin to a board.

“Slow, quiet, cold,” she said. 

“None of those have a scent,” Riddle said as he returned to his impassivity. 

“A warm library surrounded by deep winter snow.” 

“That is equally unclear.”

“I’m expounding!” she insisted. 

“How about flowers?”

“Sure. Truly anything is fine,” she smiled genuinely, ignoring the sigh he let out as he turned to leave. To buy her something. “Oh, wait! I almost forgot.” She pulled out her purse and held out a few galleons, “For the pies and the soap.”

“That is unnecessary” He didn’t take them.

“Please, I insist.”

“Ms. Granger, truly you are too generous. But I offered, so I will pay.”

She rolled her eyes, his charms making her teeth ache, “If you don't take it now, I will repay you with interest.”

“Why does that sound like a threat?”

“Because it is. Take the money.” God, she hated the forties. 

Riddle raised his eyebrows, the most expressive he’d been all day, flicked his wand out of his pocket, and disapparated with a soft pop.

* * *

Hermione finished her pie and left.

She didn’t know where Riddle would need to go for his order pickup but suspected somewhere less reputable. He was a dark wizard friends with dark wizards. She would have to save her visit to Knockturn for when he wasn’t chaperoning her.

This weekend perhaps? After she got fully settled? She would need to check over her homework schedule. See what she could copy from old essays she remembered, and what would be new. Most would be the former, but she was still not going to let her damn grades slip in a different time.

 _Merlin_ , she was a bore. Even trying to save the world she worried about marks.

Whatever shop he was going to, she doubted her would be going to an owlery. Only for first years and people needing replacements. It was a few minutes walk from the Cauldron, with a plain wooden storefront and a handful of owls in too small cages out front.

Even from outside, The Eeylops Owl Emporium was an absolute racket at twilight. Chirps, squawks, and hoots rattled the doors before she even entered and the shop. Opening the door the sound increased a dozen fold and Hermione realized there was a muffleo charm on the shop.

Her nerves screamed as she was exposed to the cacophony of the damn birds. She halted, letting the wave of stress drown her a moment before choking it down. There was NO danger here. Besides, what could she do? Cast a dozen hexes at the birds for being too loud? They were already in cramped cages and an overstuffed shop, even wizarding owls had their breaking point.

The shop was small, causing the noise to reverberate further, battering Hermione relentlessly. Dozens of owls flapped loose around the rafters. Rows and rows of cages lined one size housing another handful of birds. Opposite was a counter with a stand of care books around it.

_Wonder why the post office wasn’t this loud? Probably because the owls had access to freely fly outside. These were restless being cooped up for who knows how long._

“Good evening, Miss! Looking to pick up an owl?” An old man with grey robes, grey beard, and silver spectacles sat behind the counter, “I have everything you need: Horns, Browns, Scops, even a Snowy on sale if you're looking for something eye-catching.”

“The exact opposite actually,” she breathed deeply, focusing on the here and now. Yes, the loud noise dug into her mind, making her instincts resentful, but it also focused the same way any extreme sensory input did.

Hermione had to shout a bit to be heard though; she hoped it didn’t come across as rude, “Do you have something dark or dull? Looking for a quick bird that would fit in with a crowd.”

“A black owl you say? I have just the one! Came in about a month ago from a previous owner, bit pecky, but most owls are like that until they get their new owner,” He got up from the chair and began walking toward the side of the shop with rows of cages.

A gray owl woke up and began biting at their cage, giving a horrendous screech. Hermione began to get a headache from all the noise. 

He brought her over a different one. It was black, yes, but was very clearly _not_ an owl. It was the size of one sure, but it had a long straight beak and small talonless feet.

It was distinctly glaring at the proprietor. One eye milky white.

“That’s a raven,” she looked at the poor bird. It began glaring at her. Hermione looked away.

“What? No, it's not! It’s clearly an owl, look at the primary feathers.”

“Look at the beak, sir.”

“Must have been a stray charm or something. You know how careless wizards can be.”

Er… What?

She looked at him a moment, thick grey robes covering him like a fish in a fur coat, trying to figure out if he was just messing with her or actually running a scam. He seemed fine, if a bit hapless, but if this was a scam, what was it supposed to be? Ravens didn’t even have the right feet to carry things. “This is a raven, probably someone’s familiar.”

“It came to me in the last shipment of birds. From a very reputable breeder.” Didn’t he just say it was from a previous _owner_?

It croaked.

“Hear that? Does that sound like an owl?”

“Yes.”

“Okay,” she drew out the word, ignoring the pounding in her head, suddenly not worried at coming across as rude, “Well I'm uninterested in this… _owl_. Could you sho—”

“Why? It's a perfectly good one, and exactly what you wanted! It’s dark, quick, won't draw attention at all,” he said and pointed at the bird to emphasize his point.

It lunged toward the finger, long beak poking through to bars, and _snapped_ its beak down on it. The shopkeep jerked back. His hand came away red.

“Bloody wretched thing!” he swore as he examined the relatively small bite on his finger.

It _cackled_.

Ah, that was it. Naughty little thing wouldn’t sell and he was trying to show it to everyone who came into the store.

Poor thing. Hermione briefly contemplated buying the raven, but knew it would draw attention every time she sent a message. The one witch sending messages through a raven! Tracking her would be the simplest thing in the world, just paint a sign on her face that said: _It’s me. I’m the one trying to track and kill Grindelwald_.

And she was a Slytherin now, right? What would it be like to show up with a raven as a familiar? If the interhouse politics were anything like her time, showing respect to the animals of the other houses was tantamount to treason. Even if, technically, the Ravenclaw symbol was an eagle.

He carefully picked up the cage, no fingers near the bars.

“I don't want it. It’s not for me,” she said quickly.

“Why not? It likes you!” He turned and started toward a door in the back.

Since when did glaring constitute affection? “I don't think it does.”

“It hasn’t nipped at you yet. That’s more than I can say for anyone else that’s come in.”

“Other people have come to see it?”

“I told you it’s been here a month! I know it’s bitey but experienced owls usually sell quick.” He placed the raven’s cage in the back room.

“Maybe because it’s a raven,” she mumbled under her breath, rubbing her temples.

“It’s not a raven. I am a birder, I know what a raven looks like!” he called out from behind the door, surprising her.

“They’re called ornithologists,” she called back lightly.

“That seems like a mean name for a bird,” he said, startling a chuckle out of her, and came back out without the raven. He may be a bit obnoxious, but at least he wasn’t going to foist the bird on her, “I know he’s a bit temperamental but you don't have to be cruel about it.”

“That’s not— Nevermind. Please give me that one,” she pointed up, in a random direction. There were dozens upon dozens of birds in the shop, and her finger landed on a simple barn owl grooming itself near the rafters.

“That one? Not very quick, but if that’s the one you want.”

“Yes, please,” she said, relieved to finally be getting out of here. She didn’t want to be late getting back to Riddle. Hermione was trying to cultivate trust, not leave the impression of a flighty bird.

He whistled sharply and the barn came down to land on his arm. “I'll just go get the cage for you,” He went through the door in the back with the brown owl on his arm.

“Thank you.”

Hermione browsed around for a while, picking up _Outstanding Owls: Adventurers Through the Ages,_ an anthology of the greatest achievements in all of owldom. Apparently, no less than a dozen wizards were rescued by their owls during the Great Fire of London. Floos hadn’t been as prolific, so enterprising wizards too unskilled to apparate had had to manage with a leviosa to make themselves lighter and engorgio the make their owls larger. Once they escaped the fire, though, the owls had—

“Here you are, Miss!” the man’s voice cut through her reading, and with it the racket of the shop sliced through her head once again. She sighed, and the door to the back opened and the proprietor walked through once again with a shiny, new, too-small cage with the brown owl in it.

“Thank you,” she smiled, “How much do I owe you?”

“With the book?”

“Yes”

“Would you like some treats? It can help a new owner bond with their animal!” he said as he set the cage on the counter.

“Sure.”

“Excellent! That’ll be seven galleons and eight knuts.”

She handed the coins over, picked up the tin of treats, and was out the door with her new _innocuous_ owl with only being over by—she cast a _tempus_ —four minutes. She winced. Maybe Riddle would be late as well.

Hermione tapped her nails against the bars of the cage and cast a simple _scourgify_ on it to give the owl a chance to get to know her magic. The bird watched her fingers and ruffled its feathers as her magic swaddled it. The cage was a cruelly small thing and, momentarily, she wanted to stuff the shopkeeper in it to see how he would feel about the accommodations. The violence passed quickly.

She walked down half a block to a side alley, she didn’t want to release the poor owl in the middle of a busy street full of war-weary wizards. They might act irrationally and attack it or something. Hermione had accidentally spelled a few unexpected birds in her time.

The Alley’s alley was short, thin, and had a single dumpster in it. She set the cage on the dumpster and opened it.

“Alright, no going too far,” she said as she held out her arm with the treat tin open, “I’ll not keep you in a cage, but I don't want you flying off after any old mouse. There is work to be done. I’ll need _The Daily Prophet_ and to send letters. You can have the rest of the time to yourself. Deal?” It looked at the tin of treats, some sort of magical wriggling hairy beans. Terrifying. “And I'd appreciate some discretion, or at least as much as you're capable of. The whole reason to buy an owl is to not be tracked by the post.”

It jumped onto her arm, heavier than she expected—she had only ever owned a little Scop for letters—and began pecking at the furry beans.

“That seems like a deal to me. Now what shall I call you?” she mused as moved the beastie to her shoulder. It was difficult to walk with its weight awkwardly distributed on her outstretched arm. She held up the tin for it to peck at.

Hermione walked back toward the Cauldron, leaving the cage in the dumpster.

* * *

The Leaky Cauldron was grey-washed and low-lit now that night had fully set. Riddle sat casually at the same table, his sharp uniform even darker in the dimness of the pub, drinking tea with an open red book in his hands. It didn’t have a title on the cover. Maybe a restricted book? They usually didn’t advertise themselves on the outside. How had he managed to get it out of Hogwarts? She was a prefect for _years_ and was never allowed to take—

“Found what you needed?” 

She froze. 

If at any point in their interactions Hermione had found him cold or sharp or violent, it was _nothing_ compared to what his voice held in that moment. 

Hermione had drowned once. Fell through the ice of a river on a family trip when she was seven. The cold had _choked_ her. It had ripped her lungs inside out and turned her skin to open raw nerves. There had been terror, of course. Fastly flowing down a river away from the hole she'd made. But for a moment, she didn't even want to be rescued, if her mom and dad would have to be here, in this _cold_. No one should have to be _here_ , be in _this_ , be in an indifferent river in the dead of winter. 

And then, suddenly, she had… _not_. She had been on the snowy bank in perfectly dry clothes, confused, scared, and very hungry. 

Riddle’s voice was better and worse. He wasn’t indifferent; he was furious. 

For a moment she couldn’t respond. She was in a river, in a castle, in a basement, and fear wrenched her throat with hard calloused fingers. 

He turned the page of the book, utterly indifferent to her. 

“Yes,” she croaked, voice raw. 

She swallowed, getting fluid back in her throat, and took a deep breath. Her name was Hermione fucking Granger, and she had faced worse than a mean teenager terrified of dying. 

“Sorry for running late,” Her voice was clear, light, refusing to acknowledge his callousness. She pointed to the creature on her shoulder, “I didn't think the owl would take that long. Did you pick up what you needed?” 

“Yes,” he said, voice obscenely light like he hadn’t just cracked her open raw with a sentence, and gestured toward a small green box on the table, “Here is your shampoo. Are you ready to go?”

“Yes. Thank you,” she leaned over and picked up the box. It smelled… clean? She was never good at anything more than basic identification of scents—she couldn’t differentiate flowers like some people—but it smelled like good sharp soap… with something else?

“Ms. Granger,” He snapped close the red book, startling her into looking up. His eyes were empty, lidded, and flat, “as I will most likely be the one babysitting you as you settle in, I would caution against wasting my time.”

“I understand, and I do apologize. It was not my intention,” She needed to build trust; she gave him something, “I didn’t know how I would react to the loud noises, so I thought it would be better to do it on my own.”

“Loud noises?” Riddle asked airily as he tapped the red book with his wand. She memorized the stitched pattern before it disappeared. A checkered diamond pattern in orange thread on a maroon cover and thin crisscrossed black stripes on the spine.

“When you spend a lot of time fighting, you tend to overreact to every little thing. And an owlery at twilight is _not_ a quiet place,” she said as they began walking toward the fireplace. Owl on her right shoulder, him at her left.

“I'll keep that in mind, Ms. Granger,” His tone was casual, but… 

“Is that a threat?” she asked.

Tom Riddle looked down at her once again. Eyes black and stupidly, annoyingly flat. She briefly imagined grabbing the back of his head, pulling his hair, and _forcing_ him to look at her fully. Would his eyes stay cold, empty, dismissive of her then? Or would they heat to anger? To _anything_?

“Yes.” 

Hermione was surprised at his honesty.

“Damn, and here I am unable to apparate away. Hogwarts, Headmaster’s office,” she said and threw in the floo powder.

* * *

The office looked the same: simple and boring. Dippet was drinking tea with a man. A rather large, round man with short brown hair and gaudy green and gold robes. They were chatting about the ethics of cultivating sapient plantlife and stopped when she stepped out of the fireplace.

“Ah! You must be Miss Granger!” the stranger said, getting up and walking over to her. She had never seen such a wide genuine smile split someone's face, “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I am Horace Slughorn, your new Head of House. If you have any questions about anything at all, please let me know I’d be happy to help you along.”

He was _young_. Hermione didn’t know why she was surprised by this, but the gentle roundness of his face and overly large personality didn’t fit with the friendly but strained man she had known. No wonder she didn’t recognize him immediately. Tom Riddle’s betrayal must have taken a larger toll than he let on.

Riddle came through behind her with a soft rush of fire. She moved to the left, letting him out. 

“Tom! It’s good to see you,” said Slughorn, “Armondo told me you were helping out the new student. How kind of you!” He turned to her, “Tom is also in sixth year if you need any help with your classes. He’s the brightest wizard of his age!” 

She flinched at the phrase. 

The owl croaked. 

Out of the corner of her eye, Hermione saw black feathers.

“That absolute rat _bastard_.”

There was a bloody raven on her shoulder!

“Erm... excuse me?” Slughorn said, flushing slightly and looking anywhere but at the witch. 

Hermione didn’t notice the sharp awkwardness suddenly in the room. 

“He grifted me! In the shop,” she said and started to pace. Why hadn’t she noticed it?! Was she truly that naïve? Or was she only on watch for the kind of deception that ended with attempted murder and not dissatisfied customers. She rubbed at her face, “The back doors! He switched them in the back. Put on an illusion charm. The floo must have washed it away—wait… no—it was the Hogwarts wards. It wouldn't have abided that kind of magic sneaking in.” By the bloody sun and _stars_ , she was stupid.

“Ms. Granger, are you all right?” Dippet said slowly and glanced at Riddle, eyebrows raised.

Riddle was looking down at her, head cocked to the side. She ignored him. 

“I’m fine! I’m fine,” She forced herself to relax. There was an easy solution to this, “I am just going to have a little chat with a birder,” she walked back over to the fireplace and grabbed a handful of floo powder.

“Ms. Granger,” Riddle said quietly, “as hilarious as the thought of you ransacking an owlery is, are you not forgetting something?” She blinked. 

Right!

“Professor Slughorn,” she turned on her heels and looked at the man. He had on a concerned expression as Hermione went up and shook his hand, “It is a delight to meet you. I hope to make Slytherin proud.”

“Of course. Yes, it is a pleasure to meet you too, Ms. Granger. Erm…,” Slughorn looked around as if asking for help from the others, “Most exemplary students do not go er… ransacking any owleries. If you are in need of an owl the Hogwarts has dozens available for students to post.”

She clenched her jaw, but smiled through it, “Of course, I won't go _talk,”_ she emphasized the word and shot a glare toward Riddle. She was just going to talk with him. It was him who suggested violence, “to the man who _ripped me off_.” She could do it some other time. 

“Excellent!” said Slughorn with a satisfied smile on his face as if talking someone out of murder. 

“If that is all you need of me?” she said to the men and continued before they replied, “I have a few things I need to finish packing. Headmaster, could you open the floo again tomorrow at noon? I should be all ready to move in by then.”

“Finish packing? I thought you said tha—,” Dippet said. 

“Thank you so much!” She stepped back into the fireplace, before she would have to answer any more questions, and flooed to the Three Broomsticks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaand done with shopping! when i said slow burn i guess this is what i meant lol. next, hogwarts!
> 
> as you can probably guess, by like chapter names and stuff, food/eating/consuming things will be a running theme here. If that is something that makes you uncomfortable or just not something you wanna read about rn, that’s fine!(i’ve been there lol) there wont be any explicit eating disorders or anything like that, but hunger & satiation will come up alot. idk how to tag for that? food themes? but no cooking? lol
> 
> and i might have to switch to every 2 week updates. sorry! ( •́ω•̩̥̀ )  
> work & school are kicking up again and i dont have time to write during the day, but thank you all for such nice comments and kudos. they rly make my day <3 literally every time i get the email i do a silly lil dance <3 <3


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